


Have

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: D/s, Established Relationship, M/M, Obedience, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4585221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold knows how fortunate he is, to have a release valve for this kind of excitement. He's even more fortunate at the moment: John is in the library, not doing anything pressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Morin for quickie beta <3

Too often these days Harold feels like coding is simply knowing what open source library to use, or what existing vulnerability to exploit. That the most he can look forward to in his work is a system design that is either painfully obvious or just painful. 

Once in a while, though, he runs across little jewels of algorithms, clever mechanisms that make his mouth quirk into a smile. When they require actual thought of him, when the possibilities of them branch beyond the basic if/then causes, Harold can become quite -- excited.

Harold knows how fortunate he is, to have a release valve for this kind of excitement. He's even more fortunate at the moment: John is in the library, not doing anything pressing.

"Mr. Reese," he says. "On the bed, please." He doesn't look up. He hears the thump of John's shoes hitting the floor, the rustle of fabric as John undresses, and gets up at his leisure.

John is on his hands and knees, eyes closed, forehead leaning against a pillow. Harold runs an appreciative hand down his back, watching his muscles ripple at the contact, and further down, to test John's readiness.

He's still slick and open from the last time Harold had him, roughly an hour ago. "Not too sore?" Harold asks. The question is rote: John's opening is invitingly pink, not angry red. 

John shakes his head and makes a muffled noise. Harold smacks his backside once, hard. John's ensuing "I'm good," is loud and clear.

There is no condom, only the barest bones of preparation. Harold undoes his own fly, slicks up his cock and dabs some additional lube on John's opening. Then he sheathes himself in one smooth thrust.

John groans when Harold is seated firmly inside him. 

"Yes, Mr. Reese?" Harold inquires.

"Harold." John swallows. Then he forces out a, "Please."

Harold reaches down to test John's balls. They're plump and full, drawn tight enough to crumple the ribbon loosely tied around John's equipment. John sounds quite desperate, but he has a way to go yet. "Not this time, John." He bends to the best of his ability, and John arches up so that Harold can kiss the curve of his spine, mitigate the sting of rejection.

Then John settles back into position, and Harold takes him. 

He's not rough with John. There's no need to be. He is quick and efficient: he knows, after all, that this - John's body - is his to be had whenever he wishes. 

Harold wishes it often.

John starts begging again after the third thrust. Harold strokes a hand down John's back, listening as his voice rises in pitch and urgency. Harold doesn't answer. He said all that there was to say on the subject already. Vocal sympathy would not do John any good.

Harold's climax comes without much fanfair, a sudden flash of pleasure and relief. He pulls away from John's trembling form, puts himself back together, then sits down on the bed. John moves to lay his head in Harold's lap with admirable agility.

"Your hair needs to be cut," Harold says as he pets it. With his free hand he fishes his phone out, arranging an appointment for tomorrow without looking at the screen. "How are you?" 

John stills and considers. That was something Harold had to train him into doing: give him an honest appraisal, aiming for his own optimum state rather for the bare minimum of survival. Harold is quite proud of him for learning this, and he says so on occasion. "I'm good," he tells Harold.

"Excellent." John is still shivering under his hands. He doesn't need Harold to tell him how good it will be, when Harold allows him to come. Obedience runs deep with John, and Harold has learned to use it to give them both pleasure.

The struggles John faces are different ones. "You are holding up beautifully," Harold tells him, wishing not for the first time that he had a more emphatic voice, a better way with words to impress on John just how well he's performing. 

It appears what he has is sufficient: it makes John shudder hard, then he squirms, entire body pushing closer to Harold's. Harold encourages this, gathering John up until they're lying on the bed, John's head on Harold's shoulder.

"Don't let me," John whispers, soft and broken.

Harold's hand is steady on the back of his neck. "I won't." John sags against him, relieved. He explained it to Harold, once upon a time. John can't restrain himself - or he can, if Harold gives him the slightest straw to grasp at. A word is enough, or an idea.

Personally, Harold doesn't believe that for a nanosecond. John Reese is the most restrained human being he knows. The ribbon around his testicles is pretty, but nowhere near tight enough to restrict either blood flow or ejaculation. That latter is only prevented by John's sheer power of will. John is afraid of himself, but the fault for that lies with those who tried - and nearly succeeded - in turning him into a living weapon. It's an empty fear. 

John asks for so little, though. If it's a word, or an idea, or the illusion of control, surely Harold can give him those.

"I won't let you come until you absolutely must." He tightens his fingers on the back of John's neck, like a collar, or the ties John spurns. "Regardless of how you ask."

John grabs his other hand to kiss it. "Thank you."

Harold smiles. "I assure you," he says, wryly, "it couldn't be further from a hardship."

John makes a doubting noise. Harold lets it be.

Later, when he finds a new vulnerability in RSA, Harold only has to say, "Mr. Reese," to have John slide between his legs, eager to please. He keeps Harold's soft cock in his mouth afterwards, holding his own hands behind his back. His mouth keeps Harold warm as he meticulously documents his findings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section owes its existence to potcpoi, who asked for it, and to violentdaylight, who beta'd. <333

John wakes up to a polite text from Harold asking him if he's coming in. He texts back a quick affirmative and launches out of bed: in five minutes he's dressed and ready to go.

The day _really_ starts half an hour later, when he's bent over Harold's desk, making ragged noises and fighting not to come.  

After Harold's done, he drags John up into a deep, filthy kiss. John has to break away, eyes shut, and hold a hand up asking Harold to give him a minute. 

Harold's hand wraps tightly around John's wrist. “Not yet.” John focuses on the steady pressure of it until his breath evens out.

Once he's reasonably sure he won't spill all over Harold's bespoke pants, John leans his head on Harold's shoulder, going as boneless as he can without making Harold support his weight.

"Very soon, I think," Harold murmurs. That's low, making John hope. But his fingers feel so good carding through the hair at John's nape, and then Harold kisses him again, shallow and sweet. John could stay like this forever: wanted, just a touch away from release, with Harold's hand gentle on the reins.

Even when Harold moves away, John feels the warmth of him. He lounges, pretending to read, watching Harold work. Every now and then Harold will stop and _look_ at John, these proprietary little glances that make John want to preen: so he does. 

He spreads his legs, or licks his lips. He folds origami, to remind Harold that he's good with his hands, or does push-ups, or sit-ups. Harold's good at tuning out distractions, which means probably John isn't getting anyone killed by showing off, and he enjoys the challenge.

Just after ten, Harold wants his mouth. Really goes at it, taking an aggressive hold of John's head and fucking his mouth, giving John just enough time to snatch a breath between strokes. Harold's a little frustrated, John can tell, wishing he could thrust with his hips rather than holding and moving John's head. John kind of wishes it too, but it's not a big deal. Like this is fine, better than fine. 

When Harold comes down his throat John's aching in his pants, probably ruining the fabric with precome. That's okay. Harold will buy him new pants if he needs them.

"Stand up," Harold says, and when John obeys Harold undoes his fly. He has to swallow a gasp when Harold takes hold of his balls. "Just a few more hours," Harold says, like he's sharing a secret. His eyes are bright. "Can you tell?"

John nods, jerkily. He can tell. It's in the way his world narrows down until there's nothing else but Harold and the perfect ache in his balls, his cock, the necessity of relief. It'll be so good. "Please," he says, without meaning to.

It's all right. Harold understands. Harold knows him.

Harold deftly maneuvers his cock back into his underwear, buttoning John's fly back up. John likes the way it looks, the smooth swell of his hard-on visible under the fabric without making it bunch or wrinkle. Harold does, too: he rubs a hand over it, just once, just enough to make John tremble.

Then the phone rings, and Harold blanches.

_Really?_ John doesn't say. The world doesn't stop just because he's dazed with lust. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog.

"I can't let you go out in that state," Harold says. He's not even looking at John, eyes firm on the screen, fingers flying on his keyboard. "This level of distraction would be life-threatening."

There's nothing John can say to that: it's true, as much as neither of them likes it. Even so, he can't bring himself to do the obvious thing, take his pants off, take care of the situation. "Harold," he says, voice just a bit unsteady. 

Harold does look up then, with a warm look that undoes John by itself. "Remove your pants and underwear and go lie down," he says softly. "I'll be with you in a moment." 

It's easier that way, easier to just do like Harold says. Easy to let his mind go blank while he's on the bed, waiting, one last moment of peace before he has to go out and function again. He hears Harold move his chair back, hears Harold's footsteps approaching. 

Then there's a firm kiss pressed to the back of his neck and a warm hand over his ass. "This will be over quickly," Harold says, an attempt at comfort that mostly baffles John.

He figures it out a moment later, when Harold slides two fingers into him, quick and familiar. He's so good with his hands, can reduce John into a messy, begging puddle with a few methodical touches. He's made John come before from being fingered alone, no warm up, nothing touching his cock. 

That's not what he's doing now, John realizes.

He can't quantify what makes the touch different, only knows that it is. Need is building up, steady and urgent, but it isn't quite like wanting to come. John frowns, and then startles when he feels his cock pulse. 

"There we go," Harold says, still weirdly soothing. "Let it all out," and John does, his semen pushed out of his cock in spurts; but he isn't coming, not even a little bit. "Ejaculation without climax: call it a loophole." 

"Oh," John says, for lack of a better word. It aches, like blue balls, like a bad bruise. Makes John feel empty inside, and hungry: but it clears the fog from his mind and his eyes, too. "Who's our number?" he asks, needing to set his mind on the next thing.

"Jonathan Cho," Harold says, giving the briefing with his fingers still moving inside John.

When Harold withdraws, John gets up to clean himself and tidy his clothing. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror: The Man in the Suit, through and through. Nothing behind those eyes but efficient function, and that's the way John likes it. 

Harold's back at his desk, nodding at John as he leaves. His suit is impeccable, his eyes fixed on the screens ahead. As though he never touched John, or let John touch him. Finch doesn't look like anyone touches him, or anything. 

It turns out Cho was sleeping with the wrong person. Namely, Benjamin Greely's girlfriend, which meant Greely and his buddies lie in wait for Cho with a fine array of blunt instruments. John gets one in the kneecap, pistol-whips another, and subdues Greely himself into the ground, cuffing him and leaving the trio - as well as a shaken Cho - for Fusco.

All in all, a tiring but satisfying day. John comes back to the library with a slight limp, courtesy of a baseball bat to the calf, but fine other than that.

Harold makes him undress, mouth pressing at the size of the bruise on John's leg. "I suppose it could be worse," he says with a sigh. Then he cradles John's face in his hands and kisses him, slow and tender.

It's easy to close his eyes and float. Pain isn't anything, doesn't mean anything when he's like this. He got hurt doing what Harold told him, which makes it okay.  

He realizes Harold's gently pushing him down. It sends a jolt through him, a combination of arousal, excitement, and a sort of vicious gladness. Harold wants him. Harold will take him, still fresh from the field, and that's the best possible indication that John did something _right_.

But instead of testing fingers slipping into him, instead of Harold's hand on his jaw or the head of his cock touching John's lips, Harold takes hold of John's cock. It's not the way he usually touches it, either, teasing or moving it aside when he tests John's balls for fullness.

This is how Harold touches John when he wants to get him off, but that can't be right. 

"Harold." John struggles with the word. Breath seems hard to find, moving quickly in and out of his lungs. "But I didn't... but I just...."

Harold's eyes are fierce on his. John's rapidly going back to that place where Harold is everything and nothing hurts, the blue of Harold's eyes filling the whole world, like an ocean he can float in, or drown. "You gave me authority over your satisfaction, John." His hand is still moving on John's cock, keeping a slow, hypnotic pace. "It showed immense trust, and I am grateful to you for that trust. Do you withdraw it now?"

"No." He says it without pausing to think. There's no other possible answer.

Harold smiles at him, and that's it. John's sunk. "Thank you," Harold says. His free hand touches John's face, two fingers tracing from his cheekbone to the line of his jaw. 

Then he bends down and takes John's cock in his mouth.

John's not all the way hard yet. His relationship with Harold has taught his body to treat sex as a long term game, to pace itself. His fuse burns excruciatingly slow, and Harold extracted all the come from him just a few hours ago. Even during puberty John wasn't the type to get off four times a day, the way Harold is now.

(Which makes John wonder what Harold was like as a teenager. It's a frightening thought.) 

_Fuck_ , the heat of Harold's mouth is incredible. Harold's not as good with it as he is with his hands, but he's plenty good enough, and he enjoys sucking John off. That much is evident in the little satisfied humming noises he makes, ones that make John tremble. Knowing that Harold is content just to make him feel so good is, is.... 

He comes with a cry, not bothering to warn Harold in advance. Harold knows how to read him better than John knows himself. If he's still sucking John, it's because he wants to swallow. 

John's eyes blink open. He doesn't remember closing them. Harold's smiling down at him, dabbing his mouth with his pocket square. "Now open your legs for me, my dear," he tells John, and John does it.

Usually when Harold fucks him it's short and to the point, scratching an itch. Now he takes his time, and whispers in John's ear how good he is, how pleased Harold is with him. 

John's still sensitized from coming, so that every thrust is sweet torture. Harold knows it, too, watching John's face raptly. "You take it so well," Harold says, kissing the corner of John's mouth. "So very well, my darling, my John." 

John turns his face aside and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. That's the only way he can permit the word, "Yours," to come out of his mouth like it wants to. 

"Yes," Harold breathes; accepting it, like the gift John meant it to be.

He doesn't quite understand what happens next, his body shaking and spasming under Harold. But Harold continues praising him, moving in him, and finally he makes Harold come with a shudder. He doesn't pull out, then, but holds John tightly.

"What," John says, voice gone croaky.

Harold brushes a kiss to his temple. His eyes are heavy-lidded, which doesn't usually happen to him after sex: it makes John feel ridiculously accomplished. "Dry climax." Apparently the sense of accomplishment is mutual. "I appear to have placed exceeding demands on your body."

The tone of his voice makes John shiver all over again: it's so satisfied. He can practically hear Harold plotting what he wants to do with John next.

For himself, John can't wait to find out. 


End file.
